


The Game

by OhMaven



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Multi, Soulmate AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-21
Updated: 2016-07-21
Packaged: 2018-07-25 18:30:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7543357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhMaven/pseuds/OhMaven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Although one can discover their soulmate by the writing that appears on their arms when their other half writes on their skin, for most it's not worth looking. For many, their common-born soulmates have little access to writing supplies - or even the requisite education. For others, their noble-born duty hampers the ability to marry solely for love or compatibility. Only the young seem to enjoy the knowledge of a perfect other half wandering the world; someone to speak with, share secrets with, and love - even from afar, and even in vain. </p><p>To the young noblewomen of France, the flirtations and secrets with a soulmate they can never have is known as the game. Something to enjoy, but to never hold. To the unloved Queen of France, it's a lifeline she simply cannot help clinging to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Game

Ana Maria was only ten years old when it began; awkward script that began at the crease of her elbow and crawled to her wrist. The words were unfamiliar, the script masculine (if clumsy), and the _Infanta_ feared that she had become possessed by some demon. At first, she wore dresses with long sleeves, tugging them down almost over her thumb to prevent anyone from seeing the words, and questions, and _curiosity_ that bloomed over her skin on a near daily basis. Ana prayed then, harder than she had in her ten short years; harder than she thought she ever would again. The beads of her rosary passed between her fingertips; _Ave María, grátia plena, Dóminus tecum._

The _Infanta's_ distress did not go unnoticed; her parents attempted to coax her secret from her. Court began to whisper about Ana Maria's upset, her long-sleeved gowns, her sudden withdrawal from being the bright an lively girl they had always known. No matter what she did, or how hard she prayed, the words kept coming.

One day, in a fit of desperation, she wrote back.

_Why do you write to me?_

At first, she thought contronting the devil must have worked. For days there was no response, and Ana Maria came back to herself. She rode with her father, she laughed over the meals she shared with her family, and she did not carry a heavy burden into mass or confession. During that time, she even nearly confided her struggle to her mother – and she might have, if not for the words that appeared between her evening meal and time for sleep; that masculine script which read, in Spanish, _I did not realize you didn't speak French. I am sorry._

French. Her demon was _French_.

She did not answer the message that night, or the following day; she ignored the questions that flowed now in a language that she understood. Questions about her day, her health, what her favorite activities were. Poetry. Without any other choice, the _Infanta_ finally sought her mother. Margaret, the Queen, was the beauty that her daughter promised to be; more reserved and soft-spoken than her usually energetic eldest child. The two sat down together for tea, and in shameful silence, Ana Maria bared her right arm for her mother's inspection. For a long moment, the Queen sat in silence, lips thin, as her daughter fought the tears that blurred her vision. Finally, Margaret reached out, lifting her daughter's chin.

“You are so young, I had thought...there might be more time.” The Queen's hand fell away, resting on her lap once more. “He must be older than you, whomever he is.”

“Who?” Ana Maria asked, brow furrowed.

“Your soulmate.”

The word had the _Infanta_ crossing herself hurridly. She'd heard the term before, from her mother's ladies when they thought she wasn't listening. Whatever it was, it sounded cruel and unattainable, and she didn't _want it_. Ana's mother sighed again.

“Listen to me, Ana Maria,” she leaned forward suddenly, taking her child's hand. “You _must_ ignore him. Soulmates...they aren't for girls like you. Duty, a marriage to the man your father chooses, that is your life. Your highest calling will be to provide an heir for your future kingdom, and nothing as self-interested as a _soulmate_ can interfere.”

Her grip tightened on the _Infanta_ , causing the girl to gasp slightly. “Many girls of your station, noble girls, call it _the game_. They write to these boys, encourage them – all knowing they can never reveal themselves or follow through with any sort of love, or relationship. Don't risk your emotions getting involved.”

Ana Maria couldn't help it, her gaze drifted down to her mother's arm – concealed by a long sleeve – and she wanted if her mother had done just that. She didn't make any promises, feeling too overwhelmed to speak on the subject. Instead, she quietly changed the subject and retired to her chambers early that evening. Ana Maria sat on her bed, maids dismissed, and stared at her right arm. He, whomever he was, seemed very sincere. There was an apology near her elbow, a small drawing of a horse touching her wrist. In between the two, a funny story about himself and his sister. Her fingers traced the swirling letters for a few moments.

Choosing not to think too strongly on her actions, Ana Maria went to her desk for a quill; in careful lettering she began to tell her soulmate about how much he'd frightened her – and that she was grateful to have a friend as generous as he.


End file.
